Savio woke to the hot sun opening up to his window,
creeping through the lined cracks of his little wooden shack,
Savio was 23 and had never gone to school,
He read old newspapers that were thrown on the dirt road,
sometimes a day old,
other times a week,
On a good day the sun will be gentle,
and the mud isn't too wanting,
and your boots fit right,
and a Newspaper is from that morning,
On a good day.

Other days,
Savio and twenty other,
picked the Oranges,
placed them into long mesh yarn'd bags and carried them away off to the pick up-trucks.

There was a woman he loved,
She had hands that a Tarantula would fall in love with,
she painted them red,
either to match the color of her lips,
or the fact that she,
was lust,
plucking at gluttony,

She could never pick as many Oranges as Savio could,
So Savio would walk to her and smile at her cheek bones,
and smile at the way her eye lashes curved like the way her lips did,

Her name was Bitellie,
She cooked for Savio,
Bitellie picked up what she could,
from his little wooden cracked shack,

The smell of Oranges still on their hands,
Listening too Mario Bauza,
Listening too Mexico crickets and flickering orange talented lamp posts.

It was a rainy day,
and the mud that surrounded the Orange Trees was thick,
yet thin enough to sink you down to just your knees,

Savio had found no newspaper on the side of the road,
It was usually left by someone wealthy,
with the business section folded on top,
Sometimes he would find half a cigarette,
and he would smoke it,
watching the gray blue smoke, tango with the Oranges.